


Coffee and Scream

by AuditoryCheesecake, uniqueinalltheworld



Series: Sweaters and Satinalia [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alternate Universe - College/University, And Fereldan Football as American Football, Dagna and Dorian Being Nerds, Featuring the Hanged Man as Campus Coffee Shop, M/M, Morning After, Nerds Being Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld
Summary: Dorian deals with the aftermath of his costume faux-pas.





	

His phone wakes him up, but he can’t answer it. He’s trapped under something that feels like a cross between a pillow and a slab of stone. 

It’s Bull’s arm, of course. The _Iron_ Bull, who’s been torturing Dorian from afar for at least an entire semester-- and by extension torturing Dorian’s friends and roommate who have to listen to him whine. His first instinct, naturally, is to assume it’s some sort of extremely vivid lucid dream, but it’s far too detailed. His mouth tastes awful, his right hand is tingling with pins and needles, and he’s wearing a criminally comfortable t-shirt, far too big for him.

Is he supposed to sneak out now? The Bull wanted him to stay last night, but he can’t really have meant it.

Someone pounds on the door. Bull groans and sits up, rubbing at his face. Dorian, in a great show of logic and self-preservation, pretends to be asleep. He pulls the covers up over his face just a little.

Bull gets out of bed, and Dorian is cold. He listens shamelessly as Bull shuffles across the room.

“Ugh! Cover your bits,” says the girl at the door.

“I was asleep.”

“Krem’s making those hangover pancakes though. The ones with the strawberries, yeah? You got sad last time you slept through them.”

“I was _asleep_ , Sera,” Bull stresses.

“Oh,” she says, “ _asleep_.” Dorian can hear the air quotes.

“Yeah, so tell Krem to make extras, and maybe throw out some of the bottles in the kitchen. If he makes it look a little classy, tell him I owe him one.”

“Not a frigging candygram, am I?”

“I’ll owe you one too.”

“Hmmm. That lump of blankets who I think it is?”

“Maybe.” Maker bless the Iron Bull, for preserving some small part of Dorian’s dignity.

“If he brings his smurshy lab partner to your next whatsit, we’re even.”

“I’ll tell him. Now fuck off, okay?”

The door closes, and Dorian shuts his eyes, hoping Bull didn’t see that they were ever open.

He hears Bull rifle through the drawers near the bed, open the tiny window near his desk, and generally move around the room and not come back to bed to keep Dorian warm. He waits, trying to keep his breathing even as Bull stops at the side of the bed. He imagines he can feel Bull’s eyes boring into the side of his face.

The touch startles him, a brush of Bull’s knuckle against his forehead, pushing away a strand of hair that had fallen across his eyes. He looks up, aware that his makeup must be a mess, his bedhead worse, he must look awful if Bull’s smiling at him like that.

“Morning,” Bull says. He keeps smiling.

“Is it?” Dorian pushes himself reluctantly into a sitting position and glances out the window. “So it is.”

He glances back at the Bull, who’s still standing beside his own bed like he’s not sure he’s allowed into it. He looks unfairly good for having just woken up-- but then he doesn’t have hair or makeup to worry about the way Dorian does.

And now that Dorian knows what it’s like to have his hands on Bull, the way he sounds and moves and surpasses Dorian’s guilty fantasies, well. He lets his eyes linger. It’s only fair, considering the way Bull’s attention has slid decidedly away from Dorian’s face.

Dorian’s not precisely offended, of course. He’s not the one who got up and put on pants.

“I admit,” he says after their silent moment of mutual appreciation, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

Bull sits on the bed, Dorian’s legs resting against his hip. “Well, I sort of like the idea of keeping you in my bed all day, but I’m _supposed_ to do some Antivan conjugation worksheets with Skinner.”

“Supposed to as in you will? Or as in your plans have changed?” He sets a hand on Bull’s thigh, hoping he seems more sultry than cautious. If he isn’t being kicked out right away, he’d like to draw this out.

Bull smiles and leans down to kiss him, soft and close-mouthed. It’s _sweet_ , is what it is, and Dorian’s not awake enough to decipher that. He settles for being relieved that it doesn’t last long enough for morning-breath to be a concern.

He also slides his hand further up Bull’s thigh, because he’s only mortal.

“We were gonna start over breakfast,” Bull says apologetically, and his hand, which had found its way to the nape of Dorian’s neck, falls away. “You can eat with us if you want? Krem makes some killer pancakes.”

“Regrettably, I also have responsibilities this morning.” Responsibilities in the form of inhaling a parade of disgustingly sugary drinks at the Hang and powering through the robotics theory essay he and Dagna have been putting off.

He can see Bull’s shoulders slump. 

“I would--” where is all his boldness from last night? It had been easy enough to say what he wanted then. “I’d like to come back? Do this again sometime?”

Bull’s shoulders unslump by degrees as he smiles. The rush of heat to his cheeks surprises Dorian. He’d fucked the Bull last night with only a single beer to bolster him, but he chooses _now_ to be flustered?

His phone chirps with a text, and they both glance at it. “That’s my responsibilities now,” he says. Neither of them move.

It’s a few more minutes before he makes it down the stairs, lips tingling a little from Bull’s kiss.

* * *

Dagna calls him as he’s walking back to his dorm, the Bull’s oversized shirt bunching under the hoodie he’d swiped out of the closet. He’s not sure which one he’ll use as an excuse to come back.

He digs his phone out of his pocket, fumbling with the screen. Why does IU have to be in the coldest part of Ferelden? The Jurassic Park theme plays almost half way through before he finally slides it open. “Dorian!”

“Loquendo,” he says, teeth chattering.

“Dorian!” Dagna is chipper. Dagna’s always chipper, but there’s a manic edge to her voice this morning. “Dorian, come to the Hang!”

“Ten minutes,” he says, and weathers her disappointed sigh. He’s not going anywhere he might be recognized when he’s wearing clothing is so clearly not his own, and he’s not telling Dagna about anything over the phone. She talked one time about recording their conversations to develop some sort of AI, and he’s _pretty_ sure she was joking, but he’s taking no chances.

He slips up the stairs and into his room without encountering anyone, and digs through his closet for something wearable. He’s needed to do laundry since he pulled that string of all-nighters for his Ethics in Bioengineering presentation, so he comes up basically empty. A pair of jeans, a shirt with the motto of some other college across the back.

He pulls them on, and then the Iron Bull’s enormous hoodie on top of it all. He fixes his hair and examines his reflection critically. He certainly doesn’t look _fashionable_ , but the jeans are tight and the sweatshirt is baggy-- it’s an accepted style on campus. Maybe he can keep a scone or two for later in the pockets.

And, privately, he admits that there is… something… about wearing Bull’s clothes. It’s comfortable, and also a little thrilling, if such a combination of feelings makes sense.

He makes it to the little cafe just outside of the ten minutes he promised Dagna, and she’s frowning at him when he pushes the door open. The space has sprouted even more Satinalia decorations since he’d been here two days ago, and Isabela, who he knows from his Rivaini history class last semester but mostly because she makes the best mochas, is wearing a witch’s hat.

She cackles alarmingly when he reaches the counter. “Isn’t Satinalia still a week away?” he asks while he looks at the muffins. She’s already pouring milk into a carafe for his drink.

“I know whose sweater that is,” is her smirking response, and Dorian’s cheeks start burning before she’s finished the sentence. “You went to that party after all then?”

“Yes.” He’s not about to tell her that it wasn’t a costume party. He still feels stupid about believing that dick from his calc class, even if had turned out alright in the end. More than alright.

“Are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?” she asks loudly over the hiss of the espresso machine. “Because I have some _guesses_.”

The machine shuts off and he puts a muffin and one of the Hang’s gigantic cookies on the counter for her to ring up. “I did go,” he begins in a dignified manner, “I had a nice time--”

“I’ll bet you did.”

“Please just give me my coffee, Isabela.”

She holds the cup out with a grin. “One detail, and the cookie’s free.”

“The Chargers have a shockingly clean house.”

“That’s not a detail, you ass!” she laughs.

Dorian smirks. “The Iron Bull has a potted fern on his windowsill, and an unreasonably comfortable mattress.”

“That’s more like it.” She relinquishes the coffee. “Keep me updated.”

“Certainly not.” He takes coffee, cookie, and muffin over to Dagna. She’s waiting for him with a reaction diagram and something that looks like a venti cup of straight espresso.

“So,” she says as he sits down. Dorian feels abruptly like he’s encountered his mother nine hours after curfew. “It wasn’t actually a costume party.”

“No,” Dorian agrees. “No, I was quite mistaken about that.”

“Everyone thought my Post-Apocalyptic Paragon Branka costume was just a daring choice of leather and eye makeup, but you--” 

“Snake charmer,” Dorian says it so that she doesn’t have to. They both take silent, horrified sips of their beverages.

“Did you leave? I lost track of you after a while, and I called but you didn’t answer.”

Dorian takes another sip of coffee, a fortifying one this time. “Well, first I hid in an empty room.”

“As one does,” she says.

"And then my hiding spot was discovered.”

“Oh no.”

“By the Iron Bull.” 

“Oh _no._ ”

“Yes. It was mortifying.”

“What did you do?” 

“...him.” 

Dagna’s face breaks into a maniacal grin. “Tell me _everything_.” 

Dorian does.

* * *

Dorian, a certified genius and also an _idiot_ , never gave the Iron Bull his phone number.

He spends two entire days thinking of some way to talk to him again short of just showing up on the Chargers’ house front porch. He’s knocking on the door before he thinks _Facebook_ , and someone is opening it before he can turn tail and correct his mistakes.

“Is the Iron Bull home?” He sounds nervous, and clears his throat.

“In the den,” says the elf. Dorian recognizes her, maybe. He wonders if she recognizes him, decides it’s a ridiculous thing to wonder, and thanks her. She scowls and vanishes back into the house, leaving the door open behind her.

He steps in, and threads his way through the halls. He doesn’t get lost, though he thinks he’s about to. In his defense, the house had been completely full of people the first time he’d been there.

The den had been empty, during the party, that’s why he’d hid there. Now it’s full, the huge screen of the television lighting the room. He pokes his head in cautiously. It’s some sort of sports-centric videogame, which he really should have anticipated. Football, he thinks, or the sport that Fereldans call football in defiance of all reason.

It takes him a moment to locate Bull, shirtless, leaning on a wall with a beer in his hand, and he’s already seen Dorian by the time he does. He tries to convey in gestures something that Dorian cannot interpret, and makes his way toward the door. His smile is wide enough to make Dorian blush. He doesn’t, though. Of course not.

“I came to return your shirt,” Dorian says, and holds it out to him. Bull’s hands encompass his. “And a good thing I did, too. Most people _wear_ their clothing when the weather’s below freezing, you know.”

“Are you complaining?”

“I suppose not.” Bull’s chest is rather delightfully broad, after all. 

“You know, I think you took my hoodie, too.” 

“Oh!” Dorian’s smiling now too. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

Bull glances back over his shoulder into the den, where someone has scored a goal. Real football, then. The Fereldan fake doesn’t have goals. “Shame.”

“It’s such a long walk back to my dorm, though. And _cold_.”

“You should stay here, then.” Bull’s grin hasn’t flagged.

“Oh I should, should I?”

One of Bull’s hands is no longer on Dorian’s. Instead, it’s found its way under his chin. Bull’s moved closer, as well. “Yeah, you really should.”


End file.
